


Missed Communications

by WellSchitt



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: (of himself not other people), Abuse (mentioned briefly), Anal Sex, Angst, Body Shaming, Denial, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Fat Shaming, Internalized Homophobia, Lots of Angst, M/M, Medical Procedures, Miscommunication, Panic Attacks, Relationship Growth, Secrets, Sweetness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, WELL NOW THAT I'M DONE WITH WARNINGS, but it's not sexy trust me, crash dieting, fiances, forgot to add that one earlier, loss of arousal, people handling problems badly, possible eating disorder, trying to get all my angst out in one fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 01:46:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20037871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellSchitt/pseuds/WellSchitt
Summary: Five times they didn't talk things through, and one time they tried to.





	Missed Communications

**Author's Note:**

> These are not actually my head canons, I'm just out here torturing myself.
> 
> See end notes for a little more specific discussion of tw.

1.

“So, what drew a promising young businessman like yourself to Schitt’s Creek?” David asked. It felt like a normal first date question, and yet Patrick’s shoulders tensed almost to his ears.

His ears were cute. _He_ was cute.

“Oh, the bustling local economy. That, and the fine dining,” Patrick said, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “You?”

“Mm, same, same.”

The conversation flowed naturally back to the mozzarella sticks from there, and even though David was more curious than ever, he didn’t bring it up again.

2.

“You slept well,” Patrick said, smiling and setting down a cup of coffee on Stevie’s battered end table. He was feeling a little smug. Last night had been his first time going down on David, and apparently he hadn’t been completely terrible at it.

Watching David slowly wake up, he remembered how he’d gently petted his hair—and how that had turning into gripping. How his hips had finally given up the fight the remain motionless. How he had babbled nonsense. How he’d kissed him so softly afterwards.

“Hmm. I don’t think I’ve slept this well since that time I was in a slight coma in Berlin,” David said sleepily.

“I’m sorry, a slight _what?_” Nothing like the casual mention of a near-death experience to set the tone for the day.

“Oh, I was dating a hotelier who dabbled in designer drugs. He had a bad trip or something, and shoved me into this, this cubist statue monstrosity at the Kunsthaus Dahlem gallery.” He rolled over, saw the coffee, and immediately lurched towards it.

Patrick bit his lip. _Jesus, David._

They’d been together for three weeks—it probably wasn’t his place to say anything about an ex shoving David around. Patrick wrestled with himself and watched David’s expression as he drank his coffee, trying not to think about what a gigantic _waste_ it would have been if this beautiful man had died from a head wound in some German gallery surrounded by pretentious art dealers.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” David asked, fingers questing around his forehead.

“Nope,” Patrick replied. “Just wondering how much of this,” he waved his hand around David, “is because of the head injury.”

“Very little!” David said cheerfully, clearly enjoying his coffee.

3.

David was going to come too soon if Patrick kept making those noises.

It was the first time he had taken Patrick from behind, and… just, _fuck_.

Patrick was usually quiet in bed—David was the loud one—but he was a whimpering mess now. He let out a little “mhm,” on almost every thrust. He’d gasped out a loud “Oh, God, there, right there” when David had hit his prostate for the first time, and he’d moaned when David dug his nails into his hips and pulled him back.

Would it be weird if he asked Patrick to let him record them like this? He wanted to hear it again and again, Patrick’s calm, competent exterior shattering, Patrick losing his mind, all because David was making him feel so, so good.

“Want to make you feel good,” David said harshly, thrusting forward a little harder.

Some kind of dam broke, and Patrick was suddenly babbling, “Please, you are, David, please, I need it, please.” He sounded desperate and broken and entirely out of control. “Fuck me, oh god, please, I- I can’t, I’m, please, fuck-” and on and on, quiet Patrick who sometimes only revealed that he was coming by exhaling a little more forcefully than normal.

Frantic, already starting to come, David reached for Patrick’s dick. He barely had to touch it and Patrick was clenching around him, crying out.

They collapsed forward. Patrick was trembling beneath him, around him, as David’s dick gave a final spasm. They laid there, sweaty and exhausted, for at least a full minute before David finally pulled out. He tied off the condom, tossed it carelessly to the floor of Patrick’s apartment, and they stared at each other, grinning.

“How the _hell_ did you not realize you were gay?” David asked, shaking his head a little, still grinning.

Patrick just shrugged, his smile going plastic, and then David watched as he shrank into himself without moving a muscle.

“I didn’t mean- everyone figures it out at their own-”

“Relax, David. It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

They laid there awkwardly for another moment, breathing heavily, before David stood and got Patrick some water. Then he brought back a towel and wiped him down so he wouldn’t be covered in tacky lube in the morning.

When he laid back down Patrick kissed him softly, an acceptance of his apology.

4.

“You need to stop doing this.”

“Why? You’re my fiancé. I’m supposed to spoil you, aren’t I?” Patrick set down the box of guava danishes he’d brought back from Elmdale by the register. They were David’s favorite _local _food, as he put it—his real favorites required plane trips. “Don’t get used to it, once I’ve got you locked down next month I plan on being a thoroughly lazy husband.”

David didn’t crack a smile. “Patrick. Look at me.”

Patrick looked, waiting for David to say something else. He didn’t.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“I’m at least fifteen pounds over my goal weight, and I ordered that French gray tux for the wedding. It is _not_ a forgiving color.”

“David, you don’t need to lose weight. You look great to me.”

“Ok, well, that’s _very_ sweet, but frankly I’m more concerned about looking great to the wedding videographers. And if I don’t lose a few pounds, they’re going to think they were hired to film a nature documentary.”

“David.”

“Because I’ll look like a hippo, Patrick. Or a- a rhinoceros.” He waved his hand at the danishes.

“Yes, I understood what you were implying.”

“An elephant. A gray whale.”

Patrick clenched his jaw. “I don't think you need to lose weight,” he said stubbornly.

“And I don’t think you need to get a $10 haircut every single week when you have gorgeous-”

“I am not growing my hair out, David! For the last time, it bugs the heck out of me having it longer. I like it short and I’m keeping it this way.”

David glared at him and returned to browsing candelabra on the store’s computer, muttering something about curls and wedding photos.

Patrick frowned every time a danish made it’s way into a customer’s hands.

—

After that, Patrick noticed that David was getting salads without dressing and unsweetened iced teas every day for lunch... and he rarely saw him eat anything else.

Feeling sleazy, he pulled out his phone.

**Patrick, ****6:09 pm****: **Can I ask you something in confidence? It’s about David.

The man in question was busy making centerpieces for the reception on Patrick’s bed, which was basically their bed at this point. Theoretically Patrick was watching a baseball game—it served the purpose of making David entirely incurious about what he was up to, at least.

He’d been banished from helping with the centerpieces. Apparently his bows looked like a preschooler on a sugar bender had tied them.

**Stevie, ****6:20 pm****:** Oh this ought to be good

**Patrick, ****6:21 pm****: **Not really. Did he eat dinner with you yesterday?

**Stevie, ****6:22 pm****: **No he left at like 3  
**Stevie, ****6:22 pm****:** Oh

Patrick glanced back at David, who was supergluing something silver onto a black vase. The wedding was still three weeks away.

**Stevie, ****6:25 pm****: **Last weekend, Saturday, had he had lunch with you before he picked me up?

**Patrick, ****6:25 pm****:** No

**Stevie, ****6:25 pm****: **Fuck.  
**Stevie, 6:25 pm:** So what do we do here? 

He felt overcome with gratitude at that _we_.

**Patrick, ****6:26 pm****: **Has he ever done this before? That you know of, I mean?

**Stevie, ****6:26 pm****: **No

**Patrick, ****6:29 pm****: **How do you think an intervention would go?

She sent back a bomb and two coffin emoji, which about summed it up. Patrick tapped his phone against his thigh.

**Patrick, ****6:30 pm****:** Yeah but I can’t just do nothing.

**Stevie, ****6:32 pm****:** Hear me out, maybe that’s exactly what we do for now? Keep an eye on it, tell him IN A CHILL WAY that we're worried about him. Separately so he doesn’t bitch about our advanced interrogation techniques again.  
**Stevie, 6:33 pm:** Check back in in a week? 

**Patrick, ****6:40 pm****:** Alright.  
**Patrick, ****6:40 pm****: **I just don’t understand it. He’s so gorgeous just how he is.

**Stevie, ****6:41 pm****:** Yeah okay keep it in your pants Brewer.  
**Stevie, 6:41 pm:** Or don’t actually, work the praise kink thing it could help  
**Stevie, 6:41 pm:** and remember, CHILL

**Patrick, 6:42 pm:** Thanks I always appreciate being reminded that you’ve had sex with my fiancé

**Stevie, 6:43 pm:** I’ll take him to cookie mill tomorrow 

**Patrick, 6:43 pm:** Thank you  
**Patrick, 6:43 pm:** for real this time

—

Patrick finally relaxed about it, somewhat, when David came into their honeymoon suite carrying what looked like half the room service breakfast menu.

“I’m never dieting again,” he said fervently, picking up a fork. 

5.

“I think you could come again.”

“David,” Patrick laughed, trying to swat him away.

“No, no, you’re half-hard just from getting me off. I think you can.”

“Why are you so ridiculous?” Patrick reclined back onto the pillows and waved a hand, evidently giving up the fight—not that there’d been much of one.

David smirked at him and wiped a hand through his own come on his stomach. He took Patrick into his slick hand, gratified when he hummed and pushed his hips up.

“You made me come twice.” David bit his collar bone. “It was fantastic.”

“Ok, but it doesn’t have to be an even tally?”

“No, I know. I just want to. If you want to.” And speaking of things they wanted—Patrick usually got hard pretty quickly during foreplay. Feeling him only partway there was a rare opportunity. 

David leaned in and took Patrick’s mostly-soft cock into his mouth, tasting his own come as he did so.

“Oh,” Patrick gasped, which was already a major win. He hardened a little more in David’s mouth as he swirled his tongue and sucked, feeling filthy. It was good, so good, feeling Patrick’s arousal growing like this. He moaned and let his mouth get sloppy—Patrick liked his mouth sloppy.

After a few more minutes Patrick was hard, but showing no signs of coming yet. That was ok, David could work at this for days. Well. Hours. Half an hour, at least. His knees kind of hurt from scrubbing the floors in the shop that morning.

But then suddenly he didn’t even have half an hour, because Patrick was pulling back, pulling away. “David, stop. I need you to- sorry, I need you to stop. Sorry.”

He sounded wrecked, and not in a good way. David sat back immediately, wiping his mouth.

Sitting up against the headboard, Patrick brought his legs in, his arms folding on top of his knees—the exact picture of an animal protecting his softer underbelly.

“Sorry,” he kept repeating. “Sorry, I don’t think I could have again. We can, later, we can try it, I just don’t think it was going to happen right now-”

“_What _is going _on_?” David said, intending to be kind and gentle but probably hitting worried and shrill instead. “Are you alright? Did I hurt-”

“No!” Patrick forced a laugh. “This is- this is really stupid. I’m being- I’m fine. We can try again later, if you want.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about trying again. What just happened?”

“I’m really overreacting here. Please don’t worry about it.”

David stared at him. Worriedly.

Patrick sighed. “Just a bad… weird… memory. It turned me off, i guess, and I didn’t want you to waste your time trying to-”

“What was the memory?”

“You really don’t want to hear about it.”

“I really do.”

“It involves Rachel.”

David didn’t even flinch. “I want to hear about it so I can make sure this never happens again.”

“David, it’s fine.”

“I understand if you don’t feel like you can tell me-”

That worked, and David had known it would—just that subtle implication that Patrick wanted to keep a secret about Rachel. 

“It wasn’t a big deal!” his husband said, a little loudly. “It was- she always- she wanted me to come every time we- every time we had sex. Sometimes I just wanted to stop, because it wasn’t working, you know? But that really hurt her feelings, if I stopped, so we’d just…”

“She made you keep going?” David couldn’t keep the fury off of his face. Controlling his face was not his strong suit at the best of times, and this was decidedly was among the worst of them.

“Jesus, David, that makes it sound like- she didn’t _force_ me. Don’t be ridiculous.”

David tried to see him better in the dim moonlight. He had learned, in the extremely rare moments when they’d talked about Rachel, that Patrick was protective of her—and that Patrick would go to his grave feeling guilty about her. “But when you wanted to stop, she pressured you to keep going.”

“It hurt her, David. _I_ hurt her, when I couldn’t-” He was getting heated. “You’re turning this into some big dramatic thing, and it’s not. She wanted me to come, to enjoy it, that’s hardly- that’s not-”

“Ok, alright. I’m sorry,” David said. He felt sick. “We don’t have to dissect it. I’m just... I’m really sorry if I made you feel… pressured. Or anything. Tonight. You can always- like, we _never_ have to-”

“No, I know that. You asked, you- this isn’t a big deal, David. I didn’t explain it well. I made it sound like something it's not.“ Patrick pushed his palms against his eyes. “Could we just go to sleep? I’m fine, it’s fine, but I’m... tired. We’re both tired, that’s why we’re fighting about this.”

David really thought he might throw up. “We can go to sleep.”

“Thank you,” Patrick said, sounding pitifully relieved. He settled back into the bed. After a moment he said, “I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I love you, too.” The words felt inadequate. Going to sleep felt inadequate.

Humming acknowledgment, Patrick settled in, curling up on his side like he always did.

When David was completely sure he was asleep, he snuck closer and held him.

+1 

At least it wasn’t the kind of broken bone where it poked out of the skin, David thought grimly, gritting his teeth against the pain. There wasn’t even any blood. He’d fallen from a ladder in the store (because Patrick, that monster, had been making him laugh) and was now sitting in an Elmsdale emergency room cradling his wrist pathetically and whimpering whenever Patrick took his hand off his knee.

“We’re going to have to operate, I’m afraid,” the doctor said, bursting back into the room—cubicle, really—with alarming bustle. “We need to insert some pins to ensure the fracture heals properly.”

“Pins? Like, instead of a cast, or...”

Patrick sighed. “David, you’re going to need a cast. Just accept it.”

“My sweaters,” David hissed at him.

“I’m afraid you will indeed need a cast for several weeks, Mr. Rose. One of my colleagues operate tomorrow morning first thing-”

“I have to _sleep_ here?!”

“I’m afraid we can’t operate today, you have to fast for twelve hours before we put you under.” She peered at him over her thin glasses.

“So if I told you that I’ve already been fasting for twelve hours, would that speed things along, or...”

“You haven’t, though, because I watched you eat four pancakes three hours ago, David, so that’s irrelevant.” Patrick was pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not on David’s thigh.

“I am not sleeping here!” David tried to keep the panic out of his voice. He hated hospitals.

“We need to admit you so we can control the pain and prevent further injury, Mr Rose.” The doctor had that professionally patient voice that meant she was likely getting fed up with him.

Patrick squeezed David’s thigh. “Whatever you think is best, doctor.”

“Before I put in the orders, I need to ask—is there any history of drug abuse, any allergies to medication, or a prior injury to that arm that might not be recorded in your file?”

David shook his head, still mutinous.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll send a nurse in to start your IV.” She started to leave.

“Wait! Doctor, sorry, but he’s- he is. Um. He has that. A history of addiction.” Patrick said quickly, not looking at David.

“Excuse you?” David stared at him.

—

Patrick glanced edgily at his husband but kept speaking to the doctor. “Sorry, but if that- if that affects his treatment…”

“How long have you been sober, Mr. Rose?” the doctor asked David, and Patrick was grateful for her matter-of-fact tone.

David still looked too taken aback to form sentences. Hopefully that lasted awhile longer. 

“Um... I remember he said he missed the premier of the second season of Drag Race when he was in rehab, so that would be... nine years ago?”

“That was a wellness retreat,” David said loudly.

“And which drugs?” the doctor asked. She was addressing Patrick now.

“The classy ones,” David snapped. The doctor turned her gaze to him, and Patrick held his breath until David finally said, “Mostly pills and cocaine. Ecstasy sometimes. But I was never an _addict_.” 

“David,” Patrick said gently, feeling miserable, “You used for years.” 

“Did you use every day?” The doctor was still taking notes.

David reared his head back. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“David, honey, she’s not judging you, she just needs to tell the surgeon, it could affect how they-“

His husband rounded on him. “Ok, but, I just feel like you’re giving her false information? And you didn’t even know me then, so-“

“Gentlemen, please,” the doctor said in a tone that made both of them shut up immediately—an impressive feat, when it came to David. “If you’ve been clean for that long, your history won’t affect your inpatient treatment plan. We’ll try to minimize the use of opiates as you heal while still making sure we're controlling the pain.”

“Good. Fine. That is _fine_, because minimizing my use of opiates is not and has _never _been a problem,” David said, punctuating the sentence with a series of angry hand gestures using his good arm. 

When the nurse came in with a morphine drip, Patrick was staring out the window with his arms crossed over his chest and David was looking pointedly at his phone.

Once the morphine set in, though, David reached for his hand and moved it back to his thigh.

—

The drive home after the surgery was a different story.

“We should talk about this.”

David ignored him.

“Jesus, David, she needed to know! You can’t keep medically relevant information from your doctor when they’re about to cut you open!”

David continued scrolling on his phone one-handed. His cast already itched, and it ruined the lines of his outfit.

“I’m not apologizing. I mean I’m sorry you weren’t the one to tell her, but someone had to.”

“If you’re not apologizing then shut up,” David snapped.

Patrick dragged a hand over his face. “David. No one is judging you, I don’t think any less of you. But you _do_ have a history of drug abuse, it’s just a fact, and that’s what she asked, and…”

David turned fully to face the window.

“For the love of- between you and Alexis I can’t even- alright, you don’t have to talk to me, but I need to say something. And I want you to imprint this on your brain, because if, heaven forbid, the authorities ever recover your family’s money and you leave me high and dry for your glamorous New York lifestyle, I need you to remember this. You’re very good at making stories about your past into charming little anecdotes to tell at parties, and that's fine. I'm fine with that. But you were an addict. You were in a string of abusive relationships. Your friends were terrible people who used you, and you deserved better. Ok? And I love you, so much, and I’m sorry you’re upset, but I can’t always play this game with you where we pretend it was all a big joke. Not where your health is concerned. I won’t. I can't.”

David blinked at him. After too long a silence, he said, “I wouldn’t leave you.”

“What?”

“If we got our money back. We’d- maybe we’d move, to open more stores, or... but I would never- do you really think that? Do you really believe that I’m that shallow, or that you mean so little to me, that I’d-“ God, the medication was making him emotional. Fuck.

Biting his lip, Patrick pulled off the road and turned on their hazard lights. David wished he wouldn’t—driving might distract him from all the ugly crying that was about to happen. 

He tried to hide his face behind his hands. The cast made it awkward.

“I don’t think that,” Patrick was saying, already unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching for him. “David, you’re stuck with me. I don’t think that.”

“I wouldn’t,” David insisted again, through tears this time.

“I know that. I know.” Patrick held him awkwardly over the center console, stroking his hair. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. And I should have asked the doctor for a minute alone with you. I should have talked to you, asked you to tell her.”

“I’d just dress you better,” David sobbed, still distracted from their main fight by their secondary one. “That’s the only thing that would change.”

Patrick pulled back to look at him, his expression blooming into that helplessly fond look David loved. He didn't respond, but rubbed David’s back until the tears slowed. 

“The pain pills are making me crazier than normal.”

“You’re not crazy.” Patrick kissed his good hand, then his cast.

They both knew he kind of was. "So I take it you’re feeling pretty guilty.”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Enough to turn back for guava danishes?” Maybe they did need to talk about this, but David needed some time first. And some danishes. 

“We passed the bakery fifteen minutes ago!” Patrick said, in a tone that meant that they were definitely getting the danishes.

“Well I wanted to ask you when we passed it, but I was ignoring you!”

Smiling ruefully, Patrick buckled his seatbelt, turned off the hazard lights, and flipped a u-turn.

**Author's Note:**

> The dubcon is between Patrick and Rachel, not Patrick and David. I feel like it's important to state that this is not necessarily how I see Rachel in canon... again, I'm just torturing myself.
> 
> To be clear NO ONE in this fic handles things well, none of it is intended to show healthy coping mechanisms, please don't yell at me about how unhealthy it all is, I already know.
> 
> Last note: I kind of struggled with the ending, but I really feel like this is how marriage goes. Conversations about big issues rarely resolve 100%, they evolve and you work through things over a longer period of time.
> 
> I'm on tumblr at well-schitt.tumblr.com <3


End file.
